


noir et blanc

by onetrueobligation



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War & Peace (TV 2007), War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Missing Scene, One Shot, kind of, sometimes i think 'i dont like sonya that much' and other times i write this, very loosely based on a bit from sense & sensibility cause i am a fucken loser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 12:23:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17549624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetrueobligation/pseuds/onetrueobligation
Summary: sonya is an observer. sonya is quiet. but sonya is not weak.





	noir et blanc

**Author's Note:**

> i finally got a new laptop which means i can finally upload to ao3 again huzzah
> 
> this fic is dedicated to my inability to consume any media without immediately relating it to war and peace. this particular victim was sense and sensibility.
> 
> also teeny tiny trigger warning for like. a reference to natasha's suicide attempt.

Sonya was a quiet girl. She didn’t like to speak unless she was spoken to, didn’t like to draw attention to herself, didn’t like to be noticed at all. It was this that made her so excellent at observing. She’d observed plenty of things in the Rostov household that she no doubt shouldn’t have; however, it seemed that most of the time, people tended to forget she was there entirely.

 

After her cousin’s suicide attempt, Sonya sat by her bedside every hour of every day. She looked after her, took care of her, whispered comfort to her, listened to her when she cried. When Count Rostov decided to take the girls back to the countryside, Sonya held Natasha’s hand all the way home.

 

Back home, things were simpler. Easier. They were far from the excitements and the gossip of Moscow, and though Natasha was still far from recovery, she seemed to be in better spirits.

 

It was hardly a week after their return when Pierre Bezukhov began visiting. The first time, he brought Natasha flowers. He visited a week after that, then three days after that, and soon enough he’d become a regular presence around the house. Natasha was, of course, delighted at having someone else to talk to, and no one else in the household seemed to pay him any mind. It was times like these Sonya was glad she could quietly observe without getting in anyone’s way. It seemed to her that Pierre seemed to be the only person who could make Natasha smile anymore, and for that, Sonya was exceedingly grateful to him.

 

It was one evening, just after Sonya had checked in on Natasha before she went to sleep, that there was a knock at the door. Sonya, exhausted and just about to retire for the night, considered ignoring it. The staff had certainly all gone to bed, and surely anyone with enough gall to visit at such an hour deserved to be locked outside in the cold. But she was curious, and perhaps, if the visitor had arrived at their door so late, there was an urgent matter that she needed to attend to.

 

Once she opened the door, however, she had to consider slamming it shut again.

 

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said in a low voice, her hands shaking with the force of restraining her anger.

 

Anatole Kuragin looked very different from the man she’d seen at the opera barely a month ago. Where there had once been swaggering, confident arrogance, now all she saw was a man who -- who looked like any other man. He looked small. Almost nervous. It was unsettling.

 

‘Sofya Alexandrovna,’ he began, and took a step inside uninvited. Sonya had half a mind to kick him in the shins and vow to set Marya Dmitrievna on him if he ever dared to show his face near their home again. 

 

Still, somehow, she remained quiet. Let her hear what he had to say.

 

‘I need to see your cousin,’ he continued, and this time, Sonya couldn’t hide a scoff. This man, this-- this  _ worm  _ thought he still had the right to even speak of Natasha?

 

Kuragin, however, didn’t seem to notice her. ‘I’ve made a dreadful mistake,’ he insisted. ‘I-- Your cousin is a wonderful young woman, and I swear on my life, if I could, I would have married her long ago. I-- I know I’ve hurt her. I know she’s ill. But… but surely you’ll allow me to see her, just once? Simply to explain?’

 

His eyes were wide, now. Insistent. Almost innocent. It was that which angered Sonya more than anything else. This scoundrel thought her weak. Perhaps he thought her like her cousin -- some swooning damsel in distress, a romantic, easily persuaded by a few meaningless words about love and life. 

 

Well. She would not let anyone think her weak.

 

‘You’re quite right, Prince Kuragin,’ she said quietly, coldly. ‘My cousin is indeed a wonderful young woman. She is a young woman who had a fiance who loved her very much. She is a young woman who sees good in everyone. She is a young woman who even saw good in a wretch like you, though how, I’ve no idea. She is a young woman who is broken and hurt and barely alive because for the first time in her life, she’s learned that not everyone in this world is as good and kind-hearted as she.’ Sonya takes a breath and folds her arms across her chest.

 

‘My cousin is a wonderful young woman,’ she says again, more firmly. ‘And you -- you were too dull-witted to see it. And now I hope you know you’ll never find anyone like her again.’ 

 

For a moment, there was only silence. Kuragin opened his mouth to speak, but Sonya held up a hand.

 

‘Goodnight, Monsieur,’ she snapped, and slammed the door.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments make my heart go uwu


End file.
